If It Is a Fight These Jacobins Want, Then It Is a Fight They Shall Have

T. Coddington Van Voorhees VIIConservative Intellectual At-Large

Such are the vicissitudes of our current political zeitgeist that Homo Republicanus is each day forced to endure a fresh assault on his intelligence somehow more insulting than the last. Doubly insulting, as you no doubt imagine, when the Homo in question is me. Contrary to what you may assume, the gift of intellectual acuity and foresight can in times like these prove to be an almost unbearable cross; I shall not use this space to recount the many unheeded warnings I have issued to fellow Republicans regarding the growing menace of the soi dissant "Tea Party" faction, other than to note that as a Cassandra I have, if anything, proven to be insufficiently alarmist.

The latest proof of this assertion came with Wednesday morning's grapefruit and New York Times, borne as always on the old family serving cart by Farquhar the old family butler. According to Van Voorhees lore the sterling conveyance was acquired by T. Coddington II during some long-forgotten 19th century Panic, from a newly destitute Albany canal boat nabob to whom he had lent a small ransom. Unable to repay his bonds, the man offered great-great-great grandpapa the serving cart in a desperate act of supplicancy to stave off a well-deserved thrashing from TC2's diamond-tipped swagger stick. Although it would not so avail him that day, the old tarnished trolley now serves as a handsome household heirloom. And, if the appraisers of Sotheby's are to be trusted, a lasting tribute to the Van Voorhees' famed financial clairvoyance. As for Farquhar, I would note that he has become in his own way an equally treasured family keepsake, having now faithfully served four generations of Van Voorheeses without complaint and without once taking a holiday. Though well into his late nineties and afflicted with the St. Vitus Dance, the old Irishman continues to do so today. As a lad I once queried my grandfather as to Farquhar's remarkable loyalty; in reply he explained that Farquhar was a penniless immigrant beggar waif when TC5 first discovered him at the Cunard docks in 1921; a wretched urchin possessing neither passport nor prospects, and with a Sinn Fein bounty on his head. In pity TC5 remanded young Farquhar to the custody of his household staff, who tutored him in the fine points of servantry and US deportation laws. Although his duties have for the most part been delegated to other members of our current household staff, I still request that he bring me my morning paper and grapefruit; for even as Mariska complains of his smell, the sight of the dear old chap hobbling into the breakfast room with the old serving cart provides a comforting reminder of a saner era when living was gracious and Republicans knew how to comport themselves.

But I digress. I was, as you might imagine, eager to read the results of the previous evening's Republican U.S. Senate primary in Delaware. Normally I would have followed the returns by live television, but Mariska and I were otherwise engaged as hosts of a black-tie fundraiser for our new charity program, Inner City Badminton, along with our dear friends from the firmament of conservative punditry, Kathleen Parker and David Brooks. Together we passionately believe that by introducing the "grand old pastime" to the hiphop community, we will in some small way begin to repair the incalculable damage done to Republican-African American relations by the racially tactless Tea Party idiots. Spirits were quite festive, especially after Parker, Brooks and the Rev. Sharpton became entangled in a badminton net during a Tom Collins-fueled limbo tournament. By the time they were freed we were all too giddy and exhausted to worry about election returns. Indeed, why should we? For the most part, the damage inflicted by the Tea Partyists has been confined to the hinterlands west of the Alleghenies and south of Washington, so it seemed somewhat absurd to suggest that their benighted candidates might actually find success in one of the better states like Delaware. Yes, I am aware of Mr. Scott Brown in Massachusetts, but as I have noted before, that particular electoral fluke can be readily explained by Brown's erotic appeal to his state's famously nymphomaniacal womenfolk. Once Senator Adonis suffers the ravages of time and gravity, I have every confidence Massachusetts will return, chastened, to its traditional progressive heritage. But Delaware? With its long record of electing deep, gravitas-laden men such as Joe Biden (who, despite suffering over 1500 sun strokes, cerebral infarctions, and hematomae over the last 10 years, retains a reputation as one of Washington's brightest minds) the 'First State' seemed the last state to be seduced by the Tea Partyist's inane lowbrow "smaller gubmint" hillbilly bunkum.

Thus I assumed when the Delaware Republican party approached me last week requesting high-level strategic advice it was in regards to the November general election. Mr. Biden's elevation to the executive branch created an open Senate seat and, mercifully, a rare moment of kismet for moderate and intellectual conservatives; here, at last, the right kind of seat, for the right kind of state, and the right kind of candidate in Mr. Mike Castle. With his nomination a forgone conclusion and a voting record scarcely distinguishable from Mr. Biden's, Mr. Castle would be undoubtedly competitive in November and could be supported by a better stripe of conservative without fear of Washington social embarrassment. Better yet, his nomination would represent a return to the rational conservatism which has been all but eclipsed by the dark moon of Tea Party lunacy. All that remained to formulate a strategy to position Mr. Castle further to the center for the general election, and to make arrangements for cocktails; two task for which I am eminently qualified and brimming with ideas. Instead, I was mortified to learn from party officials that they were in fact seeking help in parrying a primary challenge to Mr. Castle from a dark horse Republican who was in the midst of a last minute charge in the polls.

Who was this mysterious rival, I inquired - some heretofore unknown Machiavellian prodigy from Harvard poli sci? An old-money interloper from the Philadelphia Mainline? Neither, they said. The challenge, they explained, came in the form of one "Christine O'Donnell," a financially destitute 37-year old Tea Party schoolgirl whose intellectual heft by comparison made even la Palin look Obamanesque. I then watched in abject horror as they played a video of her crusading against teenage onanism. I admit no great pride in my own occasional participation in that unseemly adolescent pastime, but what sort of person declaims it on MTV? And what sort of party allows her name to appear on an official primary ballot? And that is when it struck me: I was obviously now witnessing the premise of an elaborate practical joke. Delawareans have long been known as the irascible pranksters of East Coast Republicanism, and to be selected as the target of their good-natured japery is in some fashion an honor. Even though the stunt nearly led to his untimely demise, the very first T. Coddington Van Voorhees himself reportedly enjoyed a hearty laugh after his waggish Delaware friend E. I. du Pont replaced his trusty dueling pistol with a replica that egested a comical "BANG" flag. Not wanting to spoil their fun, I did not let on to the Delaware party officials that I was wise to their little joke. Instead, I played along and counseled them to run a last minute, no-holds-barred negative media blitz against their impossibly fictional "Tea Party candidate."

And thus I awaited with wry anticipation as Farquhar slowly traversed the breakfast room with the cart bearing the punchline to the Delawareans' clever prank. This was followed by gales of riotous laughter when I discovered the wags had printed an entire mock edition of the New York Times announcing their satirical "Miss O'Donnell" had actually won the race! I was so overcome with mirth that I kicked over the cart, spilling grapefruit across the marble. As Farquhar trembled back to the kitchens to retrieve the mop, I reached for the ringing telephone prepared to hear the voice of the Delaware GOP chairman crowing about his ingenious drollery. Instead I was greeted with the panicked entreaties of none other that Mr. Castle himself, joined by the Republican National Congressional Committee brain trust, insisting against all rational evidence that Miss O'Donnell was in fact real and that she had indeed won the contest. I conducted an incredulous review of the cable news channels, which confirmed their wild story. I called the kitchen intercom and bade Farquhar fetch me a stiff drink on his way back with the mop.

What followed, I will state with no small amount of confidence, was the birth of a mighty counterrevolution to wrest the cause of conservatism back from the would-be mobs.

"Gentlemen, at long last it is time to draw a line in the sand," I announced. "For too long we have stood by idly while these insipid cretins - the Palins, the Limbaughs, the Becks - have run roughshod over our once proud party, making it a mockery and ruining our social standing, advancing the insane notion that years of Washington experience and good breeding are somehow trumped by idiotic pledges to dismantle the very government on which their very existence depends. Well, my friends, I say unto you, with this Delaware disaster they have gone a bridge too far. Today we begin the counterattack, and we will make it plain to the insurrectionists that they shan't see another dime of our inheritances."

The polite huzzahs and claps emanating from the speaker-phone indicated to me that my call to arms was striking a chord within the heart of traditional Republicanism. Heartened, I pressed on.

"If it is a fight the Jacobins want, then it is a fight they shall have," I added with a pugilistic flourish. "And let this be their warning - I once took 4th place in the East Hampton Silver Gloves boxing tournament."

My battle cry was greeted, as you might imagine, with a lusty cheer the likes of which had not been heard since the eve of Agincourt. And justly so; for in the course of human events, there comes a time when a well bred man must roll up his cashmere sleeves, grab the old family swagger stick, and remind the rabble of their proper place.

Take Farquhar, for instance. I swear the old fool just offered me an obscene gesture.

PoliPundit"nobody – and I mean nobody, in the confines of Al Gore’s greatest invention, the Internet, can slice, dice and julienne a huge chunk of pure snark into so many little jagged pieces like he can"

Charles Murray, The American Enterprise Institute"Out of nowhere—at least I’d never heard of him—comes a posting by one David Burge on his blog, Iowahawk, in which he tore Krugman’s numbers apart. I don’t mean he found some soft spots. I’m talking evisceration. The post has been flying around cyberspace and has a attracted a lot of flak to which Burge has now responded. I recommend both posts as tours de force on two levels. First, they are saturated with the best kind of Internet irreverence and humor—sophomoric occasionally, lmao funny more often. Second, the guy is a hell of an applied statistician. It’s wonderful: Paul Krugman’s got his mile-high New York Times platform, Burge has an obscure blog. And yet, in the world of the Internet, he can take Krugman down and end up letting a whole lot of people know he’s done it."

Hugh Hewitt"For a lesson on how to argue a complex case in the face of MSM stupidity and/or bias --answer with facts, repittion and careful writing laced with laughs-- read the tutorial prepared by Iowahawk... This is how it is done. Airlift Iowahawk to the Speaker's office."

The Lunatic's Asylum"IowaHawk is God. If you're STILL not reading IowaHawk regularly, then you, Sir or Madame, are a dipshit. One that should be taken out and sterilized with the rustiest of farm implements, so that you may not pollute the gene pool with future generations of little dipshits."

Bookworm Room"Every time I read one of Iowahawk’s satires, I think to myself, 'This is it. He cannot get better than this.' And every time I am wrong, as Iowahawk, over and over, publishes something new that is even funnier than his last outing... In a perfect world, Iowahawk would be one of the most recognized comic satirists in America."

Fausta Wertz"the dance floor started to open and exposed a vast deep pool filled with man-eating sharks. The crowd panicked as a couple fell into the waters and the sharks feasted on them. Without missing a step or loosening his embrace, he led me to the entrance and with a swift move managed to both hit the switch that closed the shark pit and concluded the final dance step. He then said, 'It’s late. I must go tend to my blog.'"

Dan Collins, Protein Wisdom"He is Iowahawk of Typepad
Master of the sparkling send-up
When he posts, then douchebags tremble
Realizing they’ve been skewered
And with no recourse to match him:
Mighty Burge, the Iowahawk”

Amused Cynic"perhaps the best-written, cleverest “F*** You” salute that I have ever seen administered ... I am hereby delivering a James Thurber salute to you, Dave, and popping the top on a 16 oz. can of PBR in your direction"

Daniel Ruwe, Right Minds"The funniest person on the Internet. Every one of his posts makes me laugh out loud. Literally incredibly funny. You have to experience him to appreciate him"

Elizabeth Crum"For an idea of what I find brilliant and loveable in terms of sarcasm, satire and the like, see Iowahawk. He is one of our great modern-day scribes: smart, scathing, derisive, outrageous, and funny like few can be"

Jesse Macbeth"I'd like to take the time to address some of the stuff that I read on the Internet written about me... I got to tell you some of the stuff I saw was really funny. One of my favorites ones was actually the Power Rangers one, that was kind of cool."

Jools Krittindan"Then there’s Iowahawk. I don’t even know what he does for a living, something in Iowa, I guess. Yeah, society would function fine without him. It would just suck more. He gets an estate all his own: Iowahawk, the Sixth Estate."

Cherry River Blog"Yes, this is a crude attempt to gain entrance to IH's hallowed blogroll, and maybe even a blurb-out listing, but I still stand in awe of the capaciousness of mind that Mr. Burge has demonstrated to a barely worthy Web world"

Jules Crittenden"I have received no remuneration or consideration of any kind for this shameless fawning boosterism and free advertising. Nor do I require any. To have been in some small way associated with the global Iowahawk phenomenon is more than most of us can aspire to in our miserable, inconsequential little lives. To bask in its electronic glow is to sense the existence of immortality."

Hot Flashes"The man I’d most likely invite to my bedroom in another life"

Jim Henshaw"Neo-cons may not be as humorless as I thought, as this essay from Conservative blogger Iowahawk will attest. Even if you hate his politics, this is funny stuff"

Dave Bender, Israel at Level Ground (Israel)"Iowahawk is in the side of the wrong business, not to mention residing on the wrong landmass; he needs to get over here quick and start pumping out copy for the major news agencies"

Jules Crittendon, Boston Herald"Iowahawk’s wild, unkempt observations may look like they’ve spent the last three days sleeping under a bridge, and be frightening and smelly up close, but they are conduits of fundamental, irrefutable truth. Much like the drunk who accosts you on a streetcorner and unabashedly proclaims, 'I need money for a bottle of Cossack.'"

Twisted Spinster"Iowahawk sticks the knife in so nicely that you don’t even feel it until everything starts to go dark and fuzzy"

Bill Whittle, National Review"My friend Iowahawk writes some of the most brilliant satire I have ever read. He likes to come across as a beer-swilling gearhead — because he is — but look at this ... simply so that I may bask in its reflected glory"

Rush Limbaugh"I've gotta share with you one of the funniest things I have ever read. It is by the blogger Iowahawk. It is one of the sharpest, most cutting, brilliant satires on these pseudo-intellectual conservatives... I've heard of Iowahawk. I don't know what his leanings are, probably lib, I don't know, doesn't matter. This whole thing is just wonderful, it is just hilarious."

Quid Nimis"I think the reason I don't do Iowa Hawk everyday is the same reason I don't eat ice cream everyday: it's too good. That and the fact that I would have to leave my husband and stalk Dave Burge"

Tim Blair, Sydney Telegraph (Australia)"As Sandy Roberts says: 'When you think of Bhutan, you think of archery.' And when you think of Vettes, Ferraris and Hemi-powered rods, you think of Iowahawk and his LA-bound nitroclan"

Joseph Bottum, First Things"I’m on the board of a literary magazine at a small state university, and, at the board’s meeting this spring, the editor mentioned that he had wanted to reprint the blogger Iowahawk’s hilarious swipe at the archbishop of Canterbury... Unfortunately, the editor said, the magazine couldn’t do reprint it. The legal adviser from the university’s administration had said no—not on the grounds that it was offensive to Anglicans and their archbishop, but on the grounds that it mentioned Islam, and the school could receive bomb threats as a result of publishing it."

Lone Star Times"Between cleaning carburetors and restoring classic American cars, Burge churns out some of the funniest and decisively deadly wit and commentary on the web... Write the Pulitzer Committee and demand Iowahawk should win"

Roger Kimball, Pajamas Media"inspired … I was going to say 'parody,' but really it is far too close to the original to be called a parody. Really, it is like the play Hamlet stages to 'catch the conscience of the King,' a dramatic re-enactment of the very crime Claudius had committed but had yet to acknowledge. It worked for Hamlet; will Iowahawk’s performance work for the rest of us? It is too early to tell. But ... it is more truthful, and far more amusing, than anything you’ll read in the [New York] Times."

Paul Kedrosky, Infectious Greed"I really don't know how best to summarize IowaHawk's you-are-there white-trash treatise... If you crossed Hunter Thompson and Michael Lewis, you might get something this angry and bizarre"

The McMuffins (UK)"Iowahawk and his lovely wife... did not appear to be the psychopathic stalking killers we had been warned about, although that Iowahawk did have a murderous look in his eyes and an unusual amount of froth coming from his mouth"

Blacklake (Hot Air Comments)"I’d say Iowahawk was a genius, but geniuses aren’t generally very clever. Plus, studies have shown that nine out of ten have no idea how to clean a carb. So, statistically speaking, his geniushood is unlikely."

Rand Simberg (Transterrestrial Musings)"Next time Iowahawk beats up on you, just take it. If you try to fight back, it only gets worse. It's like one of those monsters that, the harder you fight it, the stronger it gets, because it actually feeds on your pathetic swats."

Blog Québécois"If Iowahawk ever decides to turn his guns on you, accept your beating with good grace and a rueful chuckle. If you try to fight back, it only gets funnier."

Roger Kimball (The New Criterion)"The excellent weblog IowaHawk summarized some of the thoughts I had... I must also laud David Burge of IowaHawk for his gritty pragmatism. He is no armchair crusader, full of empty imprecations."

Bill Whittle"I've met him, you know -- Iowahawk. 6'7" he is, arms like mighty oak trees, legs like even mightier oak trees: clear grey eyes looking to the far horizon, his lantern jaw set against the approaching storm but yet with a slight hint of a distant smile bourne of many combats won and mortal enemies vanquished.
I stood speechless in his presence at a restaurant in Marina del Rey --- just speechless, weeping silently at the sheer magnetism and force of personality coming off the man in seismic waves; a transcendental, religious experience that kept me awake for a week, as if I had seen the heavens split open in a blaze of orange and purple glory, and all of God's Great Plan revealed.
And when he finally did speak, it was the sound of distant thunder echoing off ancient mountains, a sound that predates mankind's puny schreeching -- a sound that, indeed, is antecedent to the founding of Life on Earth and comes carried through the ether on the shock wave of ancient dying stars. And though he only spoke twelve words during the four hours I stood in his presence, those words are with me still, a perfect dozen seared into my memory, written in gold across the great hall of my mind.
He said, 'HEY, CAN YOU GET THIS ONE? I LEFT MY WALLET AT HOME.'"

Spongeworthy"But no shit, Iowahawk might get up tomorrow, get baked, grab his beautiful wife and ride his moped backwards to a Hells Angel rally, then drink himself into oblivion and fight about 7 crank dealers from the Racine chapter of the Death Jokers all by himself.
Then maybe he'd go home, romance the beautiful wife, build a perfect retro treehouse for his perfect kids, drink a bottle of tequila, prepare a 3-course meal while beating away a push-in home invader and sacrificing him on a makeshift, though historically accurate, Inca altar he built in the woods behind the railroad tracks.
Then he'd sit down and knock out a tremedously insulting Leftist parody that pissed off thread after thread of Kos and DU lunatics, romance the bride once again and fall asleep chuckling.
It's like he's Paul Bunyan and Mark Twain rolled up into one hipster"